


Not The Least Bit Sleepy

by kscribbles



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Hand Jobs, Self-Discovery, Sexual Frustration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-23 07:10:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/619433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kscribbles/pseuds/kscribbles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She loves when he just lets go; when he sees there are some definite benefits to being human.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not The Least Bit Sleepy

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so several scenarios and fic-tropes in this? Ive done them before. Im aware, and have no excuses. But its all in good fun, and in the service of blatant PWP. :) Beta'd by the awesome Requialexa, who made me write this. And then rewrite it. Twice. Written in 2010.

  
Rose is already asleep when he makes it to bed that night. She’s on her stomach, her night shirt hiked up to her waist from twisting in her sleep. She’s kicked off the covers already (she’ll blame him for stealing them later, no doubt); the shadows and the lights of the city outside lay over her instead, playing against her skin, highlighting the slope of her back, the curve of her bum.

He wants her immediately.

It still surprises him, how violently his arousal takes hold of him in this new human body. He watches her for a few moments, letting the desire grow and coil within him, memories and fantasies meshing, dancing across his mind and superimposing over the image of Rose in their bed, until he absolutely has to touch her.

He undresses quickly, wondering if he should bother with his pyjama trousers. It _would_ be rather presumptuous of him to slip into bed naked, he supposes, and quickly pulls up the soft cotton, hissing as it brushes his semi-erect cock.

He climbs into bed, pulling the duvet over both of them and settles on his side next to her. He kisses a bare bit of her shoulder and whispers gently to wake her.

“Rose,” he says, gliding a hand along her back, her arse, the top of a thigh.

“Hmm?” she mumbles sleepily.

Her head is turned away from him. He lifts her hair and places moist kisses at her neck before speaking again.

“You awake?”

“Suuuure,” she breathes out in way that makes it clear she isn’t, really.

“Rose,” he says, a little louder, his voice pitched low in a way he knows usually has her knickers flying off in seconds.

She turns onto her side as well, her back to him, and she wiggles closer, making a soft noise of pleasure as she feels his erection against her bum. She takes his arm and wraps it around her waist, but then she stills. She seems… perfectly content to snuggle. Which is nice enough, but just won’t do right now.

“Can we… ?“ he says against the skin right beneath her ear. “I’d like to…” He’s not good at this. At asking for what he wants. Asking for sex. Usually he doesn’t have to. “Can we make love, Rose?” he finally asks, feeling more silly than suave.

She makes a noncommittal hum and is quiet again. He waits, tense and hopeful… and still a small part of his mind, not used to his human drives yet, is marvelling at how sex has become so intrinsic to his nature. He shifts against her.

“’M sleeping,” she finally says–mumbles, really. “Tomorrow.” She pats his hand clumsily in sympathy before her breathing evens out and she is definitely, most unambiguously, asleep.

He sighs, disappointed.

Well, now what?

His insistent hard-on, if it could talk, would point out the obvious answer.

Or he could try to go to sleep. He doesn’t want to _need_ her this way... He can try mind over matter. He eases away from Rose and onto his back, closes his eyes and tries to will his body to relax. But after a minute or so, he realises what he already knew–it’s no good; he doesn’t have the level of control he used to. That pesky human hypothalamus of his just doesn’t seem interested in the rationale of his rather impressive neocortex at the moment.

But he’s never been part of a metacrisis before, he reasons, determinately. Maybe after a few more months he’d be better acclimated, and his Time Lord mind would rebuild the severed paths to this hybrid body’s systems and have better control of them. Not much chance of that, though. He is, most likely, as acclimated as he is going to get.

And his hand beneath the blanket is already at his waistband, as if, while he was thinking, it took it upon itself to... get the party started.

He sighs again. His hand and his cock are obviously in cahoots.

He takes a deep breath, breathing in the scent of Rose beside him, and gives in, sliding his trousers over his hips and slowly wrapping his fingers around his length. He imagines that she’s awakened, that it’s her smaller hand on him, that she’s giving him her sly grin as she touches him, stroking up once, base to tip. He sighs with relief as sensation sizzles through him.

He repeats the motion as the Rose in his head kisses him deeply, wet and a little frantic, just like he likes. In his fantasy, she’s clutching at his hair with one hand while she snogs him, and her other hand, which also happens to know just what he likes, is moving faster, more firmly, against him. Faster still and he can already feel the first coiling of what promises to be an explosive orgasm. He groans as he imagines brushing her hands aside, pressing her onto her back, sliding in between her legs and into her welcoming heat–

Rose huffs in her sleep beside him, breaking the illusion.

He blinks at the ceiling in the half-darkness, cursing reality for intruding. Perhaps he should take this task elsewhere? No, that would take too long. Instead he only scoots to put some more distance between them. He turns onto his other side, his back to her, hoping to jostle the bed less.

He carefully resumes his stroking and after a few minutes, fantasy doesn’t matter anymore, only friction does.

He speeds up his hand, biting his lip to keep from giving himself away, and he’s so close, and he can’t fathom why he didn’t do this as often as possible back in the before days, it’s so so good. So good and almost there and–

“Doctor?”

He freezes at the sound of her voice, groggy, but definitely awake.

“Are you _wanking_?”

* * *

The Doctor is completely still. In the shadows, she can make out the tense line of his back where he’s pushed the duvet aside. If not for that, she might think he was sleeping. But she’s been awake herself for a few minutes and his movements and the telltale sounds he was trying not to make are pretty unmistakable.

He was touching himself, and she finds that both incredibly arousing, and kind of... cute. He’d balk at ‘cute’. Endearing, then. She knows the Doctor is still struggling with some of the things that differentiate him from his other self, and in some cases, like that of his increased... appetites, she loves when he just lets go. Loves when he sees there are some definite benefits to being human.

She vaguely recalls denying him earlier, and apparently he’d been past the turning point. But the fact that he is clearly embarrassed at being caught (he still hasn’t answered her) isn’t quite so cute. She probably shouldn’t have said anything, really, but she could hardly have gone back to sleep after realising. And she can’t go back to sleep _now_. She chews her lip, thinking about how to make this less awkward for him. She turns toward him.

“Doctor?” she asks again, more gently.

He groans, and it’s frustration and mortification all rolled into one.

She lays a hand on his shoulder and he flinches slightly. “It’s okay if you were,” she says, maintaining her feigned uncertainty and giving him the opportunity to lie if he needs it. “Turn around.”

“No,” he grumbles.

“Doctor, it’s a perfectly na–”

“Don’t,” he says sharply.

“But, honestly it’s–”

“Just don’t,” he repeats.

“Fine,” she says. Getting a little frustrated herself, she decides to change tactics as this–being understanding and supportive–is getting them nowhere. _That_ isn’t what he wants right now. And if she’s honest, it isn’t what _she_ wants either. Just knowing that he’s laying there, cock in his still hand... is, on its own, enough to soak her knickers.

And funnily enough, she’s not the least bit sleepy anymore. She scoots a little closer to him, sliding the hand she’d had on his shoulder down his arm.

“But if you turn around...” she says slowly, walking her fingers along his tensed muscles down towards his wrist. “...I might help.”

He makes a sound very much like a whimper and flips over so quickly, he rattles their bed on its springs.

Before she can blink, his mouth is on hers and he’s kissing her urgently, desperately. His tongue slides past her lips and he’s too far gone for much finesse, groaning helplessly into her mouth as he tastes her. He ruts his hips against her, grinding his erection between them, and she contemplates just shoving her knickers aside and guiding him into her. He’d push her onto her back and pound her into the mattress, and it would be gorgeous and _quick_ , but she wants something else a bit more right now. She wants to touch him like he’d been touching himself, to drive him past the edge and to feel him come beneath her hand.

She wriggles her hand down in the small space between them and wraps her fingers around him. His kiss stutters and he pulls back a fraction to hiss a broken “ _Yes_ ” against her mouth.

She has time for a quick grin at him in the dark before he’s kissing her again. As she begins to stroke him slowly, he’s fumbling with her nightshirt, trying from the top, and then the bottom, to get to her breasts, but his path is barred by clothing and limbs. Which is fine; she doesn’t want to be distracted at the moment. She tightens her grip and he stills. He pulls his mouth away from hers, breathing raggedly, and settles a hand to clutch at her hip.

“Faster, Rose... please,” he begs.

She’s happy to oblige him, sliding him more quickly through the tight circle of her fingers and palm, loving the play of soft skin over hard flesh, loving the sounds he’s making again now as he gets close, loving even his grip on her hip, strong enough to bruise.

“Wanted this,” he breathes out hotly against her neck.

“Yeah? More than making love?” she asks, recalling what he’d asked for earlier. But clearly he wasn’t in the mood for anything slow and sensual. “More than _fucking_?” she amends.

He doesn’t answer.

Instead he pushes his mouth against her shoulder, sucking and nipping at the skin almost absently, as he pushes his hips against her.

She releases him and he lets out a strangled noise of disappointment which is abruptly silenced when she pushes him onto his back, kicks the covers away and straddles his thighs. Smiling down at him, she scratches her nails lightly through the hairs on his belly and he whimpers again. Knowing it’d be cruel to tease him anymore, she wraps her fingers around his cock again. Her rhythm is steady and relentless and it’s the work of only a handful of seconds before he’s groaning, “Rose,” and, “F–fuck.”

She strokes him through his orgasm, feeling him pulse beneath her fingers, and then the warm wet surge against her chest where she’s leaning over him. Her eyes want to flutter shut, but she forces herself to keep them open so she can observe her... handiwork; so that she can drink in the shadowed image of him, his eyes screwed tightly shut, his slackened mouth before his whole face relaxes and he breathes out a shuddered breath. There are few things in this world she loves more than watching this man come, and knowing she’s the reason.

Her hand stills and he stills and the only sound in the room is his panting as he tries to catch his breath.

She shifts his pyjama trousers back into place, crawls back up the bed, and leans up on her elbow next to him. And there’s _one_ thing she loves a little bit more... when he looks at her like she’s a precious gift he still can’t believe he’s received.

“Better now?” she asks softly.

“Mmm,” he murmurs in the affirmative. “Rose you’re...” he sounds amazed as he trails off, shaking his head when he can’t come up with words. “Thank you.” And then after another moment’s pause he adds, very earnestly, “Sorry I woke you.”

She laughs at the absurdity of his apology. “I’m not,” she says through her giggles, happy to see him grinning back at her.

He giggles with her for a bit and then sobers, slides a hand into her hair.

“You know,” she says, “You can always–“

He cuts her off again before she can say _tell me anything_ , but this time it’s with a gentle kiss, and she doesn’t mind at all.

“I know,” he says against her mouth.

He kisses her again and it’s far _less_ gentle. He pushes her on to her back, wraps her legs around his hips, snogging her wildly. And even though he’s far from ready to go again, he knows exactly how to move against her to ratchet up her arousal to deliciously unbearable levels. His hands are everywhere, touching and teasing her, though his mouth remains locked on hers. Eventually they come up for air.

“You know what else I know?” he drawls, and her knickers become even wetter.

“Wha’?” she breathes.

“I’ve made a mess of your pyjamas.”

“Well,” she says, as if pondering a very serious matter indeed. “I suppose you’d better take them off me, then.”

“Yes, I suppose I’d better.”

 

FIN

 

 

* * *

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.  
  
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